Counterintuitive, Obviously
by Moni Hasnone
Summary: Sherlock's last request was to meet with John before he set off on the suicide mission in Eastern Europe. When John realizes that Sherlock wasn't just going for his mission, but also to his death, how does our favorite blogger react? How I wanted to see the final scene in episode 3x03 His Last Vow pan out. No slash, just good old epic friendship. Please Read and Review!


Title: His Last Vow (Rewrite)

 _Synopsis:_

 _How I wanted to see the final scene in episode 3x03 His Last Vow pan out. No slash, just good old epic friendship._

It was an obnoxiously sunny day, John thought as he looked out the window of Mycroft's car. He knew he risked sounding like Sherlock, but it did need to be said. It was a far too beautiful day to say goodbye to his friend.

He sighed.

Two weeks ago, his best friend had shot a man in the face to save his family. Two weeks ago, his best friend became a murderer, and was incarcerated as such. And for two weeks, John didn't know what would happen to Sherlock. Hell, he wasn't even sure he would even meet him again.

And then Mycroft called this morning.

"He requests to see you."

That was all that was said. But it was more than enough. John didn't even hesitate when he saw the black car in front of his home. He simply pulled on his jacket and sat in the back. It was minutes later that he noticed his wife was with him.

Mary's hand gently wrapped around his shoulder and he turned to gaze into her gentle eyes. She smiled softly. "It'll be fine."

John just nodded in return, swallowing down this lump that blocked his throat. Anxiety. Tension. The doctor closed his eyes as let his head fall back against the seat.

What was going to happen to Sherlock?

The next moment John opened his eyes, the black car drove along the runway towards an executive jet is stationed on the tarmac. A private airport, probably meant for important personnel. At the head of the plane, Sherlock, Mycroft and a security man watched the car pull up.

John felt his mouth go dry as he looked at the world's only consulting detective. He looked grim, some sort of a seriousness and sadness written into that sculpted stoic face.

Mary got out of the car first, walking towards Sherlock as she smiled. John followed close behind, not quite sure what to say or do, but smiling gently as well.

"You will look after him for me, won't you?" The baritone voice asked Mrs. Watson

"Oh," Mary leaned towards the other man, kissing him on his cheek as she hugged him. "Don't worry. I'll keep him in trouble."

He smiled, his eyes crinkled genuinely happy as he released her and pulled back. "That's my girl."

Mary nodded, content to see Sherlock's approval. She turned around and walked the few paces back to John, grasping his hand. John held her hands, nodding towards Sherlock, a simple gesture in greeting. For a moment, Sherlock didn't respond, simply choosing to observe the pair. His eyes twinkled slightly and he seemed proud, watching his best friend and his wife.

And then it was gone, and the younger Holmes turned to the older. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson ..." John sighed painfully, as he turned away. The doctor knew something was up, and deducing from their current environment, even he, with his above-average mind (as Sherlock would call it) could predict what was happening. Sherlock heard the sigh, briefly pausing before continuing his request. "... would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft looked a bit startled, but quickly recomposed himself, gesturing to the security guard to follow him. The older brother walked towards the wing, knowing that the security man and Mary were behind him. It was far enough that they wouldn't hear what the two men talked about, but close enough just in case Sherlock tried another _daring and imminent escape_.

And while Mycroft wished at the bottom of his heart that his brother would try something along those lines, he knew how futile that attempt would be.

Sherlock turned to John

"So, here we are," John started, a brief attempt to start conversation. Sherlock didn't reply, gazing intently at him. His piercing green eyes simply watching him, and he smiled inwardly at John's awkwardness.

The doctor broke the eye contact, vaguely scanning over his surroundings. He cleared his throat, intending to say something. Anything.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Sorry?" John asked. A bit slow, but he understood as soon as he said _Sherlock_ in the name.

"That's the whole of it – if you're looking for baby names." The detective smiled.

 _John Hamish Watson._

And John found himself chuckling, especially considering the other memory with Irene Adler. "No, we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."

Sherlock rose his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. "Oh," he breathed softly. "Okay."

The ex-flat mates both looked away, awkwardly glancing anywhere except at each other for several seconds.

John finally turned back to his friend. "Yeah," he started again. There was so much to say, so much to let Sherlock know. _Since this is likely to be the last conversation…_ He could thank him? He could start by saying he would take care of the flat? Mrs. Hudson? Or he could start pestering answers out of him now. What came out was different. "Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say."

Sherlock looked down, shuffling his feet slightly. "No, neither can I."

John moved forward, just as Sherlock lifted his head up. "The game is over," he said, almost mournfully, even with a bit of finality.

"The game is never over, John." The response was firm and instantaneous. And then his tone softened, his eyes starting to wander, as he shrugged. "But there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."

"What's that?"

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path." Sherlock sniffed, looking into the distance. "It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth." He looked into John's eyes, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "That was generally me."

"Nice," John said sarcastically.

"He was a rubbish big brother." Sherlock shrugged as if saying _what can you do?_

Both of them chuckled softly at that, managing to sneak a glance at the observing older brother at the wing of the plane. And the laugh slowly died out. John cleared his throat again, turning back to Sherlock.

 _This was wrong_ , John thought. It was like a calm before the storm. Something was wrong. They were dancing around the question, keeping the false pretenses of happiness. And John didn't want to dance anymore.

"So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?" John asked, trying to keep the question casual.

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe." Sherlock answered. He sounded bored. Sherlock sounded bored about a case. Something was definitely wrong.

"For how long?" The question was actually supposed to be _When are you coming back?_ , but this would suffice.

Sherlock actually paused for that question. Refusing to meet John's eyes, he hummed softly. "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

"And then what?"

The detective finally met John's gaze for a moment, and then looked down thoughtfully before raising his head and gazing off into the distance. He shrugged. "Who knows?"

John nodded and then turned away to look across the airfield again, breathing in deeply. Exile, John decided. Sherlock would never come back to England. And the mere thought of losing his friend _again_ seemed so painful. Well, at least John would know he was still alive, somewhere in this world. At least he had that consolation.

Sherlock looked directly at him until he turned back, then proceeded to look down again. As if he were guilty. "John, there's something ... I should say; I-I've meant to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." John snapped up, committing each word to his memory.

The detective hesitated, not quite saying anything for a long time before taking a deep breath and raising his eyes to John's.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

And John scoffed, giggling almost silently. "It's not." Sherlock returned the smile, content to remember his friend's face with a laugh.

"It was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you." John stated, keeping the good mirth.

"I think it could work."

John chuckled, then met his eyes. Sherlock held his gaze for a second, then lowered his eyes. Something was wrong about this situation. This entire situation. And before Sherlock could say anything, John blurted, "You realize that we won't leave you alone. Mary and I."

Sherlock looked up a bit confused, but John didn't stop. "You might not be able to come back home, but we can visit you. Often," John continued. Sherlock looked like he would protest, so John added an afterthought. "After your mission has been completed, of course."

The detective studied him for a brief moment. "You can't visit me, John."

John nodded. "Okay, then we can use technology. We can use skype or google hangouts or something."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but his eyes betrayed a sadness.

"There's no internet connection where you are going?" John asked, a bit disappointed with the lack of reply. "We can go the traditional way. Send us mail. We'll reply back. We can send you post cards and pictures." The doctor knew he sounded desperate now, but there was no way he would let his friend go. He had spent two years thinking the brilliant man was dead. Now, he wanted to make sure he had consistent updates, however infrequent.

Sherlock sighed, conceding softly to those demands. "I can try," he offered. He knew it to be a lie, but he didn't want John to know. He saw what his 'death' had done to John, and he would much rather die than put his friend through that again. Counter intuitive, obviously.

It seemed enough for John though, and the doctor nodded.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw his brother and Mary walk back towards them, and Sherlock realized melancholically, that his time was up.

He took off his right glove and extended his arm. "To the very best of times, John." _Thank you._

John hesitated, hating how this sounded like it would be the last time he would be with his friend, hating how he was helpless in this situation. He finally took Sherlock's hand, shaking it slightly.

They stood there for a couple of seconds, just as Mycroft and Mary made it back. Sherlock glanced quickly at his brother. "I know," he said, a bit exasperated. The world's greatest detective gave John's hand one more small pump, before releasing it and turning away. A slight mist in his eyes, he placed his glove back on and started to walk.

The doctor studied each step that Sherlock took, furthering the two friends away. Mary placed her hand on his shoulder, and John covered it with his own, finding his anchor in his wife.

Something was wrong.

 _Since this is likely to be the last conversation_

 _There may be some new players now._

 _Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong._

 _The East Wind takes us all in the end._

 _That was generally me._

Shit.

Mycroft wasn't sending his little brother on a secret mission. Mycroft was sending him to his death. The stupid politician pulled some strings and instead of protecting his brother, he was killing him.

And the storm was here.

John didn't even think to stop Sherlock. He didn't yell or run. Instead he turned around and hit Mycroft, right on that smug bastard's nose.

Sherlock turned around at the cry of pain, and saw his brother down, the security officer holding a very angry Dr. Watson back from inflicting any more on his dear brother.

And if Sherlock didn't find a smile blossoming on his lips, he would say he was lying. The momentary joy at finding his brother beaten did little to quench the burning question of _Why?_ , so Sherlock promptly strode back to the group.

"You bastard!" John bellowed towards the fallen man who was currently struggling to stand up and apply pressure to his currently bleeding nose. Mary helped the British Government back to his feet, casting a worried and questioning glance towards her husband. That did little to stop the shorter man from pulling against the Security's arms. "How could you do that to your own brother?"

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, although he could infer.

"Dr. Watson is smarter than you give credit for," Mycroft mumbled, his voice somewhat muffled by his own hand. Sherlock smiled pleasantly, just as Mycroft waved the guard to let the other man go. John clenched and unclenched his fists in a very obvious attempt to keep himself from flinging onto the stupid _reptile_.

"I don't understand, John," Mary interrupted, just as she handed the older brother her kerchief.

John pointed his finger at Mycroft. "You are sending your brother on a _suicide_ mission." Mary gasped, gazing at the older brother in something akin to disgust and awe.

"You just had to talk you mouth off," Mycroft stated towards Sherlock, more in annoyance than anything else.

"No," John interjected. "No, no. You don't get to blame this on him. This is on you!" And he pointed at him again, reprimanding him for his thoughtless actions. For his part, Mycroft just ignored.

Sherlock, on the other hand, simply shrugged. "I didn't think he would figure it. I suppose my deductions may have rubbed off on him during our companionship."

"You don't get to talk." John hissed towards the detective. Sherlock held up his hands, a vain attempt to placate the angry doctor. Nonetheless, the detective couldn't help but grin at the situation. This was far more entertaining than those false goodbyes. "What the hell were you thinking, going off to your death?!"

Sherlock sighed, the euphoria from the previous scene dying off quickly. "I didn't have many options."

"You had plenty," John contradicted. "Want me to list them?" Sherlock shook his head, but John didn't stop. "You could have chosen not to confront Magnussen on your own – "

"He was blackmailing Mary, John."

" – or chosen not to kill him – "

"I just said it; blackmailing Mary."

" – or refused this stupid mission – "

"The other option is to be incarcerated for the rest of my life!" Sherlock voice boomed.

"Why not?" Watson countered, matching the detective's volume. "You would still be alive!"

"Just barely, Dr. Watson." It was Mycroft who answered, gingerly still cleaning his face. "There is no prison that can hold Sherlock. We would be causing a riot on daily basis. And you don't want to deal with my brother bored."

John didn't reply that he had handled a bored Sherlock plenty of times in the past. Instead he chose to fume. "So, you decide to kill him off instead."

"John, this wasn't Mycroft's decision." Sherlock merely whispered, but the words made it through.

"What?"

The detective sighed. "It was my decision. I made this decision for myself." The pale green eyes looked away, almost guiltily.

"No, no you didn't," John shook his head curtly. "You made this decision for _us._ Mary, me, and my unborn child. And Sherlock. You. Don't. Get. To. Do. That."

"I made a vow, John." Sherlock smiled as he extended his arm towards Mary. Mary walked towards him, tears brewing in her eyes as she embraced him, and he enveloped her back, rubbing her shoulder lightly. "I vowed to protect all _three_ of you."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary whispered. There was guilt in her voice – this was all because of her. But there was pride, too. Her husband had a friend akin to none in this world. One who would die, kill, and go to hell just to protect the one man he deemed worthy to be his friend.

John's eyes broke, his voice wavered as he realized – shit, this sucked – that what his friend was doing was admirable. Admirable but still stupid.

And they just stood, all five of them, unsure really what to do. Mary broke off from Sherlock, walking to John. Maybe to console him. Maybe to anchor him again. But John would have none of it.

"Fine," John agreed. And both Sherlock and Mycroft breathed out, not even realizing they had held their breath. "Fine. Go on that Eastern Europe assignment." There was a pause. "But I'm coming too."

The protests immediately followed, even before John had finished his sentence. Mycroft and Sherlock were both talking, saying something, while Mary just stood silently. She wanted to protest too, because nothing meant more to her than her husband. But that was why she couldn't find her voice. Because nothing meant more to John than Sherlock and she would be damned if she hadn't figured that out yet.

John held his hand, effectively silencing the Holmes brothers. He glared at Mycroft before returning his gaze to Sherlock. "No, Sherlock. I'm coming with you. I'm not going to leave you to die alone. Not again."

His eyes were pleading in a way, and he forced himself to smile. "Besides, you have to admit it. You would miss me and our adventures. You and me. Against this whole world."

And Sherlock found himself smiling too, listening to the fool hurl his own words back at him. "No, John." The detective shook his head. "You would die."

"Then we will die together." John stated resolutely. He made his decision, and it was a damn good one. He turned around, walking towards the plane, when –

"What about Mary?"

Damn.

John turned to face his wife. And Mary didn't say a word, just watched the entire spectacle.

"What about your daughter, little Sherlock?" The detective asked.

"We are not calling her that," John countered, falling easily into their regular banter. But the question remained in the air.

"You made a vow to her, John." Sherlock reminded him. "And I made a vow to you. As much as I enjoy your companionship - and you mine - we both should admit. There is no promise between us."

"There doesn't need to be," John whispered back. "We don't need a promise to protect each other."

The men didn't say anything, they just held their gaze. Merely seconds passed, but it seemed like an eternity. An unsaid list of thoughts and emotions transpired between the two men. And John barreled into him, clinging onto Sherlock tightly. He sniffed slightly, barely keeping himself contained. And Sherlock returned the embrace, latching his lanky arms around his blogger.

"You will remain in contact with us? For the next six months?" John practically begged into Sherlock's coat.

"Yes," the detective promised. He gazed at his brother, pleading in a way. And Mycroft simply nodded, misty-eyed himself.

"And if I may speak?" Mycroft started, asking for permission. John broke from Sherlock, glaring at the other man, but didn't say anymore. Mycroft took that as authorization. "I do not intend to let my brother die in Eastern Europe." He quickly glanced at the security man, calculating the risk of revealing this knowledge. Damn the calculations. "I am going to pull him out at the first possible opportunity."

Possible. Not even probable. Funny, even Mycroft had sentiment.

"You will?"

It wasn't John, but Sherlock who asked the question.

Mycroft nodded. "It doesn't eliminate the risk, but –" He cleared his throat. "I don't want you dead, brother mine."

Sherlock looked stunned. He hadn't anticipated this turn of events, fully intending to go back into hell, and this time probably never come back. But Mycroft's new revelation was … astonishing, for a lack of a better word. He turned to John and Mary, his lips curling into a smile before opening into a relieved laugh.

"There you have it, John. Turns out you can't get rid of me as easily."

John laughed shakily, but nodded in return. He turned to the older Holmes. "Thank you."

Mycroft waved him off. "Just please ask before resorting to physical means, Dr. Watson." At least John had the decency to look ashamed.

Sherlock, however, seemed a bit giddy, happy to realize his chance at survival. And honestly, if both the Holmes brothers were working together on something, it was more _fact of survival_ than _chance at survival._

"That was a good left hook." Sherlock complimented John, to the dismay of his older brother. He smirked, obviously taunting his brother.

Mycroft sighed. "High time you get on the plane, brother dear. We are severely behind schedule."

Sherlock nodded, happily bouncing as he gave a quick curt nod to both Mary and John before heading to board the plane.

It was minutes after the flight had taken off, Mycroft received another call.

Damn his brother. There was no such thing as luck, not in Holmes' dictionary. But if there was, then his brother was born with a heaping mountain full of it.

As the plane landed back on the runway, John was simply considering how _grateful_ he was to Moriarty for staying alive.

Though consulting criminal should watch out.

There was an East Wind coming.

 **A/N: I know that there's a good amount of fics based on this scene, but I wanted to try my hand in it.**

 **A bit of a cheesy ending right there, but this was generally how I wanted this scene to pan out. I didn't think Mycroft would intentionally send his brother off on a suicide mission, but by adding that in, I might have diluted the emotion of the scene down a bit.**

 **Please review to let me know how I did!**


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